Zoey shivered, praying for help from a god that had long-since forsaken her. Hoping Kevin would hurry back and end this torment. She closed her eyes and waited for relief, either from rescue or death.
“He’s in for a surprise,” Serge said, and they all laughed.
Frank smiled. “Sure is. Hey—we done with this one?”
“Guess so,” Serge said, dropping her legs.
“You want a turn?” Frank asked Serge, offering him the belt.
“No, later. I got a raging boner though. Clear her pussy.”
Frank pulled out the dildo and a stream of blood followed. “Kind of messy in there.
“Yeah, so?” Serge knelt on the table, straddled her, stroked his cock. He bent her knees and then fucked her.
Searing heat. She thought she’d felt more pain than she could handle by now, but she’d been wrong. She got to experience it all over again. Eyes clamped shut, couldn’t watch, unable to react any more, screams and tears wasted effort.
He pulled out just before cumming. He stroked himself and jacked off on her stomach. Slapped his penis against her thigh.
“What is this?” Frank laughed. “A fucking porn movie?”
Serge huffed. “Take her with us?”
Frank said. “I don’t feel like dragging her around. We’ll come back for her. She’s not going anywhere.”
They left.
She didn’t move for a long time. The tears streamed into her hair. When she tried to move her legs, the pain worsened. With a trembling hand she reached behind and pulled the dildo out of her ass. Blood gushed, soaked the sheet. Slowly she turned on her side, her stomach churning with cramps, and curled into a ball. She pulled the blood-soaked sheet over her body.
The clock above the door loudly ticked off the seconds, and the air conditioner’s hum droned on, the only other sounds in the room besides her gentle weeping.
More time passed, and still no one returned. She located a clean corner of the sheet and pressed it between her legs, trying to absorb the trickling fluids. She sat up, her body fighting the movement.
Still no one came.
Using the table for support, she lowered her legs to the floor. They buckled, rebelled against supporting her. She waited for the shakes to stop and stood up. With agonizing slowness she made her way across the room, stopping only to retrieve her T-shirt and pull it on over her head. She wrapped the sheet around her waist, wanting to leave but afraid to. Would they be angry? Was she supposed to wait there, bleeding to death? Would James punish her for breaking yet another rule? This had never happened before. Everything was always so orderly, so calculated, run a specific way.
The prisoners (guests) were always given instructions before being allowed to leave a room. So now what? Would she be punished for leaving? Bathroom, had to get to the bathroom.
She crept into the hall, expecting the usual busyness, but the corridor was empty. No guards stationed, no prisoners rushing to their next assignments. She leaned against the wall for support, smearing bloody fingerprints. Gore trickled down her thighs. She fashioned the sheet like a diaper.
No sounds. Voices were nonexistent. On her left, the bathroom was about six doors down. She headed in that direction. Room after room was dark, appeared deserted.
A bit further down was the cafeteria. Zoey approached, planning to head back to the bathroom. The door was open a crack, and Zoey discovered where everyone was.
Chapter 10
Zoey’s heart slammed against her chest as she leaned in closer to the door, open wide enough for her to hear what was going on inside. Something felt terribly wrong, and instinct told her to stay away.
But she had to know what was happening.
At first she heard laughter, a loud bellow.
“Fuck you!” James yelled. Zoey peered in through the small slit separating the doors.
“No, James. Fuck you.”
She didn’t recognize the man who had James by the hair, the man who then punched James in his stomach and dropped him to the floor.
At the head of the room stood the three visitors who had tortured her. Beside them stood three other men.
“My name is Zachary,” the man who had punched James said to the roomful of prisoners and guards—all prisoners now, it seemed. “Call me Zack.” He smiled, crossed his arms over his black T-shirt. “In case you haven’t guessed, James is no longer in charge. Neither are his asshole cohorts. From now on, you’ll all do as I say.”
He shifted his feet, ran his hand over his black hair. “We’re going to have fun, ladies. And gentlemen. Just do as you’re told, and we’ll all get along just great. No one will get hurt. Wait, scratch that. Just do as you’re told.”
He paced, slow steps across the front of the room. “We got sick of the way things have been run around here. Got sick of this once-every-other-month bullshit. We pay way too goddamn much money. And we thought our way would be more fun. Don’t you agree?”
Fun? Was that what they considered fun? She glanced over her shoulder at the empty hallway, turned her attention back to the cafeteria.
Zack faced the women, who stared back at him in stunned silence.
He smashed his fist into a table. “Answer me!”
Women shouted “yes!”
“Better.” He turned to the other visitors. “Everyone accounted for?”
“I left some in the medieval room,” a man dressed in a monk’srobe said. “They’re chained up, though.”
“We left one in the nursery,” Serge said. Then he grinned, added, “She’s not going anywhere.”
“Pete, Doug, go get them, drag their sorry asses in here. Serge—room number?”
Serge shrugged. “How should I know? It’s the nursery.”
“Wally? Room number?”
The monk shook his head. “I didn’t notice, Zack.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake, somebody tell me the room numbers.”
Zoey stepped away from the door and crept backward down the hall. Shaking hands guided her way along the wall. She needed to hide—but where? Her mind searched every room, but there was no time to think. A few more feet down the hall, she ducked into the bathroom. Killed the lights, and left the door ajar so she could hear them approaching.
The toilet stalls had no doors. The shower area was a large, open room with overhead jets. No place to hide in there either. The linen closet was located at the back of the bathroom, behind the showers, and she rushed toward it. The darkness prevented her from seeing, but she knew what the closet looked like, lined with shelves, loaded with towels and T-shirts.
Working quickly, she removed half the contents of one shelf onto the others, rearranging them to look as natural as possible, guided only by blind instinct. She stuffed herself into the narrow shelf, hiding behind stacks of towels and shirts, pulled the door shut and drew them toward her, desperately hoping she hadn’t knocked any to the floor. It was impossible to know in the caliginous room. Her already pain-wracked body ached even more from being stuffed into the small space.
Under other circumstances, there was no way she would have imagined fitting inside that closet. She didn’t know what she was going to do. They were probably already looking for her, and when they discovered she was gone from the nursery, they would likely tear the place apart looking.
Surrender was an option—maybe they would go easy on her if she did. But then, she thought, if they’d beaten her so badly in fun, what the hell would they do to her in anger?
No, better to hide, to think.
She managed to turn onto her back, legs spread, the damaged flesh between her thighs screaming, but it relieved the stress on her contorted limbs.